Work Related
by crackers4jenn
Summary: The Office. The Michael Scott Paper Company. Pam, Michael, Ryan.


There were literally hundreds of jobs Pam could be doing. No, seriously. Hundreds. The pet-grooming place down the street from her old apartment had been hiring for at least two months. Telemarketing. Nothing like a daily dose of interrupting other people's meals. Last time she was single and at Poor Richards, Erik the bartender had told her he could use her kind behind the scenes. He'd also hit on her and told her she looked like a very plain, kinda rural, small town Julia Roberts, but without the smile and teeth and body.

And that was just three off the top of her head.

But the thing is, working for Michael at the Michael Scott Paper Company somehow manages to be a monumental step above working for Michael at Dunder Mifflin. Even if he makes her answer the phone (_What? You have the best speaking voice. And not only that, it's been proven by hard, cold facts that men will buy anything a woman tells him to buy. Look it up online. Better yet, Google it._) and twice already he's assigned her to the copy machine.

Also, both her employer (singular) and co-worker (singular) kind of suck, and they're not really very productive 90% of the time, but still. Different job title. That makes a huge difference in her ability to tolerate... oh, everything?

Except Ryan, who is always using the lap top and always on Youtube. He's not even slick about it! And earphones? Forget it. He cranks up the volume so that everyone has to hear, even though he keeps the screen tilted in his direction so that when Pam _does_ try to look at it, it's too dark and she can't make anything out.

"Hey, Ryan," Pam says, nicely. Casually. She could be doing something useful with her time that doesn't involve trying to figure out why exactly Michael seems to think the United States passes time as a collective whole, or wondering if he bothered to have someone come in and feed the goldfish--which signifies their company in _some_ as of yet definable way--over the weekend.

He doesn't even blink. "Can't. Busy."

There's this immediate response that these people cause her, and usually it's a sudden sharp increase of her blood pressure. If she has a stroke in this office building--well, closet, really--there is no way she's not holding Michael liable. Which means she'd probably end up being the recipient of a fun run extra large check to the tune of $300, since that's what he's banking now-a-days.

Still, she persists. "Really? Cause you're not even doing anything." And the thing is, she knows she sounds petty. Unlike the majority of the people in this company (and its predecessor), she does actually have a level of self-awareness. But something about Ryan--his horrible blond hair, his even more horrendous tan, his need for a serious attitude adjustment--there's just _something_ there that jolts her from calm to stressed in fewer seconds than Dwight had ever achieved out there, upstairs in the real world.

Ryan's just as petty, though, which is why he's the one to first roll his eyes. "You're such a nag. I have no idea, seriously, I have no clue what-so-ever how Jim puts up with you."

"Wait, how long did you date Kelly again?"

"Woah. Hey," he says, something like offense lifting his voice, "I can't be held accountable for actions and decisions I may have made when I wasn't in any kind of mind-set to think clearly. Those were remarkable times, Pam. Remarkable."

"How do thoughts connect in your head? Seriously."

"Just because you and Jim are going through a dry spell--"

"Don't mistake my love life for yours."

"--doesn't mean you have to jump all over me." He pushes away from the lap top and faces her. There is a sincerity in his eyes that looks amazingly like he is patronizing her. "Listen. Let's start fresh. Whatever happened in the past, happened. I'm not saying anything happened. That's absolutely not what I'm implying. As far as I'm concerned, nothing happened, okay?"

"That goes without saying."

"The past is the past, and we need to just... put it behind us."

She eyes him with something like distrust. "You want to start over. Like actual, all new employees? Who have never met?"

"Exactly. Baggage-free."

That actually sounds like... well, like maybe a stroke isn't in her imminent future after all. Because, honestly, a tiny part of her that looks upon closer examination suspiciously large is still grossed out over his whole stint in Corporate, the drugs, the jail time, the lone occasion where he asked her out on a date. A clean slate might make all that seem less characterly damaging.

She plays it cool. "Fine." A disinterested shrug. Maybe she is on board, it says. Maybe she is just placating him.

He nods once, back to the computer. "Awesome." A couple lines drawn across the lap top's touch pad, some tapping of keys, and he's back to watching whatever else Youtube recommends he watch.

"Okay," she draws out, "but I really need to use the computer."

"Like I said, I'm totally swamped here."

The gaping is being controlled. But barely. "There's a time to Youtube, and a time to work." It's sound advice, but he doesn't budge. So she brings forth her biggest piece of arsenal.

"Michael--?"

***

For the first time in his life, Michael understands what it's like to be a parent. Right? That must be what these feelings are that he keeps having whenever Pam and Ryan are bickering. He used to think that being a father would be special. Life-changing. Something only Hollywood could capture in a Sally Fields or Jamie Lee Curtis movie. Not true. Astrid? Jan's fertility spawn? No thanks. Nothing. She was like Toby, in baby-form. She wiped out every good emotion inside of him. She was small, she had an adorable laugh (so far, she's been the only person besides his Mom who's gotten the hilarity of his Barack Obama impression), but aside from that, there was no bond there. Frankly, there was a disconnect. Probably because she was made from Jan, but who knows.

"Michael," Pam says, in a tone that makes him feel old and weary, "can you please tell Ryan that, as your employee, I would like to do the job that I'm hopefully eventually going to get paid for doing--"

"You are way too high-strung," Ryan tells her.

"Oh, I wonder why!"

"Well, so do I!"

"Just, give me the--" She starts grabbing at the lap top.

"Hey! C'mon! Michael, make her--"

"Real mature!"

"_You're_ the mature one--"

"Give me--"

"Stop it! When I'm done, you can have it--"

Michael stands with a flourish. "Enough!" he shouts. "You're suffocating me! Pam's the bed and Ryan's the pillow and YOU'RE SUFFOCATING ME."

The two of them halt in their movement, each of them with a hand still gripped in claim on the lap top. He's tired of this constant, never-ending fight. It's a tantrum they have every day, and seeing how it's the 8-day anniversary of them each having this job, maybe they should stop arguing over who gets to go online and start celebrating their involvement in this company instead.

Much more calm, he warns them, "Share. Both of you. Or I'm taking it away. And you're both going to sit in time-out, and not in your own corner. I'll make you sit in someone elses corner."

"Michael. You can't put us in time-out," Pam says.

"I don't think that's a legally binding move," adds Ryan.

"Fine, whatever. Fine. I wasn't even being--it was a hollow threat, okay? Like, _eat your vegetables or Santa Clause will remember how you never listen and you won't get anything cool you wanted for Christmas_. It doesn't mean anything. It's what parent's _do_," he ends on a sigh.

He watches Pam's eyes widen. Sees Ryan return the _did you just catch that?_ look in her direction.

"Parents?" one of them finally says. Pam.

"Employer, boss, acquaintance, friend, entertainer. It's a long list, Pam."

Michael sits again. Some of the Ryan-and-Pam related tension is mellowing out.

Besides, how can he stay mad at two of his best friends?

***

The thing is, Pam is, like, a 6 on a scale of normal to Kelly. I mean, not totally high strung or anything--that goes without saying--she's actually pretty plain and kind of boring most of the time--but she gets really, really stressed out really, really easily. And over nothing! So, yeah, he's supposedly on the book, right, he's working, but what's there to even do around here? Michael makes all the important calls. Pam answers the phones. So, like, he wants to browse Youtube for a couple hours--where's the crime in that?

He's gotten really good at perfecting his peripheral vision since he started working at Dunder Mifflin, because there's always _someone_ staring at you. Or someone doing something insane and ridiculous. So he knows when Pam is staring at him, and it's not in that same disturbing way Kelly would watch him. Pam blinks. That's the difference. And there's a lot more anger. It gets intense.

Not turning away from the computer screen--he could literally sit here all day thumbing through page after page of Youtube clips, no joke--he says, "Give me five more minutes." It's an appeasement. Probably the five minutes might stretch into thirty, but whatever.

"Michael," Pam says again, high voiced. "This is ridiculous. At least one of us should be working."

This time, Ryan catches her eye. "What's that supposed to mean? Just because I haven't made a sale yet--"

"Says the salesman to the--wait, what was it you called me? Receptionist?"

"Don't put words in my mouth. Do not put words in my mouth."

Michael starts groaning. His hands are at his head tracing circles around his temple. "Oh god. Ohhhh god. This is what stress feels like." He pushes his chair back and leans forward, head between his knees, the groaning upped in tempo to something more definably called moaning.

Pam exchanges a look with Ryan. Her face says _worried_. His says _I hate that I have to be sober for this_.

"Michael?" Pam asks, cautiously.

"Ohhhhhhhhh," he replies, pretty pathetically.

Pam catches Ryan's eye again. Her eyes widen. _I don't know!_ his own eyes and raised shoulders say. _You deal with it_.

Her look hardens. _How 'bout you mature a little?_ it says.

_Oh yeah. How about you quit being such a nagging--_

"Guys," Michael manages between theatrical intakes for air. He's bent at an angle now. His face is red, veins popping up like miniature-sized road maps. Another deep breath, released with a shuddered sigh. The effect is mesmerizing. "This needs to end. Look at what you're doing to me. All this fighting. Just look at me. I'm a mess." Michael grabs the edge of his desk and pulls himself up. A pencil holder tumbles over when one of the arms on Michael's chair collides with an open desk drawer, and that only worsens things.

Pam says, "Sorry, Michael," in a way that is mostly just an olive branch of peace offering.

Michael makes a decisive shake of his head. "Sorry's not cutting it. Not this time. C'mon," he says, on his feet. "Up. Up, up, up."

Pam cautiously starts to get up. Ryan's wary as well--you seriously never know what you are agreeing to just by existing in the same space as these people--but Michael starts gesturing wildly, saying _up, up, up_ in some awful way that makes him think of bad acid trips, so he stands as well.

"Yes! Good!" He seems excited. Not exactly a good turn of moods. Ryan is much better equipped to handle the toddler outbursts. He has a 3-year old cousin. Usually all it takes is a good five minutes of yelling and they literally just... give up.

"We already said our morning cheer," Pam reminds him. "And the warm-up. And the encore."

Michael makes a _pffft_ noise, waving her off. Suddenly he's smiling, and big. Teeth are showing.

"We," he announces, "are going to break up the boringness of our day with a hobby. What hobby, you ask? Excellent question. Professional snowboarding. No. Too dangerous. Also, too North-West. I know. How about needlepoint? WRONG. Say hello, friends and employees, to--" a camera is pulled out of that open drawer, one of those big, bulky expensive kind that must've put him back a grand, easy, "your new hobby!"

There is a silence where Ryan is pretty sure Michael expects an applause, or at least a hearty vocal approval. When he doesn't get it, he continues on, "Here's a fact I bet you didn't know. Offices kill. Think about it. You're locked in a room nine hours a day. No fresh air. Bagged food. You're going nuts, right. I know I am. Hobbies," he reminds them, back on point, "are designed to be fun and make you feel good. That's why they're hobbies. Otherwise, they'd be Toby's..." Another pause, but this time he laughs at his own joke.

"Michael..." Pam hesitantly starts.

Sometimes it's better to not question things. Sometimes it's better to just shift your body weight to the back of your heels and just watch things progress. That's something you learn doing time.

"Did you go out and buy that?" she asks. "I know it's been an exciting week. Sometimes we do... impulsive things, when we're excited. But sometimes we have to remember that we have a very small budget--"

"Debbie Downer," he accuses. "_No_, Mom, I didn't go out and buy it. When I was upstairs--"

"Dunder Mifflin."

"Yes, _Pam_, Dunder Mifflin. As I maneuvered myself through enemy territory, I, and I don't know how it happened, but... I stumbled across... Toby's... desk."

Pam's shoulders sink. "Oh, no."

"And because my gut was telling me to, I army crawled my way over. Drawers may have been opened. I don't know. Who knows. It was instinct, okay? The camera was just laying there--"

"Michael--" she tries.

"What?" he demands. "What? Finders keepers, losers weepers. Literally, because Toby is a girl and he cries all the time. And don't give me that look, okay? This is a war, Pam. They made that crystal clear when Dwight made me eat that sandwich."

Ryan finally feels moved to speak. "I agree with Michael."

Pam turns on him with a dead pan look. "Oh, what a surprise."

"Hey, hey, hey," Michael scolds. "This! This is why I had to do it! Besides, Toby's weird. Nobody will even care. From here on out, instead of a lunch break, we have this."

Both Pam and Ryan eyeball the camera with mutual distaste and, it should be noted, some slight distrust, like it might sprout legs and start climbing the pipes and walls.

"You can't take lunch away," Pam finally tells him.

"Alright. Alright! Fine, we'll schedule it in somewhere else."

"Bippety Bop," Ryan suggests, because he's tired of the improv.

Michael looks at him like it hurts.

"Or," Pam says, noticing, "we could just do it whenever it's quiet. Not that I approve of stealing people's cameras," she says staring straight at the hovering camera crew.

All of a sudden there is a bright flash that fills up Ryan's vision. Then a burst of laughter from Michael. "Got ya!" he says, happy, like he just pulled off some hilarious joke. He holds up the camera for posterity sake, high above his head like a trophy.

Pam sighs, "Great."

"Tell me about it," Ryan mutters.

***

They take a lot of pictures that day.


End file.
